jealously and fantasized about pulling down her tube top—with my teeth.
To avoid the boisterous crowds in front of Mrs. Clarkelson’s trailer, we slipped out through an alley. As we walked into town, Sheeni carried Albert like a baby, lifting him to her face occasionally for a wet doggy kiss (yuck). Iwondered if she’d object to gargling with a strong antiseptic before kissing me goodbye.
Fortunately, in the interests of health, the donut shop prohibited dogs. Tethered to a newspaper rack, Albert waited forlornly on the sidewalk while the humans went inside for breakfast. We ordered a combination dozen to start with and settled into “our booth” in the corner. Sheeni sipped her coffee and tackled a maple bar. I experimented with the house specialty: a blueberry-filled raised roll, topped with peanut butter and chocolate chips. It was good, but somewhat lacking in focus.
I was exhilarated by love and the extreme sugar rush, but also felt a fearful panic at the thought of our imminent separation. Sheeni assured me her father often went to San Francisco on legal business and she would wangle a way to come along. “Dad is much more tractable than Mother,” she observed. “It’s the difference between pragmatism and zeal. I seem to have inherited their characters in equal measure, which explains the dichotomy in my nature.”
“What dichotomy is that?” I asked, munching on a cinnamon twist.
Sheeni picked up an orange-frosted cake donut and licked the frosting. “Surely you’ve noticed, darling. I approach every aspect of my life with a zealot’s intensity. Yet I am also capable of dramatic compromise. My decision to forsake the love of Trent being an outstanding example of this capacity for self-sacrifice.”
I didn’t much like the sound of that. I decided to change the subject. “Then that woman I met last night is your natural mother?”
Sheeni frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Did she have you late in life?”
“You might say that. She was over 40.”
We ate our donuts in silence. When she is emotionally distraught, Sheeni is even more heartbreakingly lovely than usual. Finally she looked up. “My mother, Nick, is a brilliant woman. A very brilliant woman. Her life has turned some strange corners. She has traveled in directions that perhaps we would not choose. But she has been places and seen things that we could not begin to appreciate. Or even understand. These journeys have been difficult and have exacted a fearsome physical toll. Now do you understand?”
It was all as clear as mud. “Sure,” I said. “That’s OK. She seemed very nice to me.”
“She was abominable to you. And you know it. Let us speak the truth to each other always, Nick darling.”
“OK, I promise.” I even decided to try it. “Sheeni, I think I love you.”
Sheeni smiled, a smear of orange frosting heightening the allure of herkissable lips. “Of course you do, Nick. Well, your hormones certainly do. And oddly enough, my hormones like you too.”
I’m not sure, but I think that was a declaration of love.
After breakfast, we walked hand in hand to the bus station, where I spent my last nickel on this planet shipping a small black dog to Oakland. Not wanting to put my relationship in jeopardy (and knowing the loathsome Trent was expected that afternoon), I was forced to retreat from my vow of candidness. I told Sheeni that Jerry adamantly refused to transport Albert in the Lincoln. I did not mention, of course, that her blasphemous dog once again had been banished. Nor did I confide that I was now facing the daunting task of revoking an overt parental “no” while attempting to conceal my open defiance of it.
Sheeni, as ever supremely confident of her overpowering charms, volunteered to persuade Jerry to change his mind. But I finally convinced her Albert would have a happier and safer trip on the bus. As a family of Berkeley-bound ’60s hippies looked on (what was it about that weird
To avoid the boisterous crowds in front of Mrs. Clarkelson’s trailer, we slipped out through an alley. As we walked into town, Sheeni carried Albert like a baby, lifting him to her face occasionally for a wet doggy kiss (yuck). Iwondered if she’d object to gargling with a strong antiseptic before kissing me goodbye.
Fortunately, in the interests of health, the donut shop prohibited dogs. Tethered to a newspaper rack, Albert waited forlornly on the sidewalk while the humans went inside for breakfast. We ordered a combination dozen to start with and settled into “our booth” in the corner. Sheeni sipped her coffee and tackled a maple bar. I experimented with the house specialty: a blueberry-filled raised roll, topped with peanut butter and chocolate chips. It was good, but somewhat lacking in focus.
I was exhilarated by love and the extreme sugar rush, but also felt a fearful panic at the thought of our imminent separation. Sheeni assured me her father often went to San Francisco on legal business and she would wangle a way to come along. “Dad is much more tractable than Mother,” she observed. “It’s the difference between pragmatism and zeal. I seem to have inherited their characters in equal measure, which explains the dichotomy in my nature.”
“What dichotomy is that?” I asked, munching on a cinnamon twist.
Sheeni picked up an orange-frosted cake donut and licked the frosting. “Surely you’ve noticed, darling. I approach every aspect of my life with a zealot’s intensity. Yet I am also capable of dramatic compromise. My decision to forsake the love of Trent being an outstanding example of this capacity for self-sacrifice.”
I didn’t much like the sound of that. I decided to change the subject. “Then that woman I met last night is your natural mother?”
Sheeni frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Did she have you late in life?”
“You might say that. She was over 40.”
We ate our donuts in silence. When she is emotionally distraught, Sheeni is even more heartbreakingly lovely than usual. Finally she looked up. “My mother, Nick, is a brilliant woman. A very brilliant woman. Her life has turned some strange corners. She has traveled in directions that perhaps we would not choose. But she has been places and seen things that we could not begin to appreciate. Or even understand. These journeys have been difficult and have exacted a fearsome physical toll. Now do you understand?”
It was all as clear as mud. “Sure,” I said. “That’s OK. She seemed very nice to me.”
“She was abominable to you. And you know it. Let us speak the truth to each other always, Nick darling.”
“OK, I promise.” I even decided to try it. “Sheeni, I think I love you.”
Sheeni smiled, a smear of orange frosting heightening the allure of herkissable lips. “Of course you do, Nick. Well, your hormones certainly do. And oddly enough, my hormones like you too.”
I’m not sure, but I think that was a declaration of love.
After breakfast, we walked hand in hand to the bus station, where I spent my last nickel on this planet shipping a small black dog to Oakland. Not wanting to put my relationship in jeopardy (and knowing the loathsome Trent was expected that afternoon), I was forced to retreat from my vow of candidness. I told Sheeni that Jerry adamantly refused to transport Albert in the Lincoln. I did not mention, of course, that her blasphemous dog once again had been banished. Nor did I confide that I was now facing the daunting task of revoking an overt parental “no” while attempting to conceal my open defiance of it.
Sheeni, as ever supremely confident of her overpowering charms, volunteered to persuade Jerry to change his mind. But I finally convinced her Albert would have a happier and safer trip on the bus. As a family of Berkeley-bound ’60s hippies looked on (what was it about that weird
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